The Dream
by Peredhel Hathladring
Summary: The world of John's sleep is not always a pleasant one, thanks to his time in Afghanistan and the death of his best friend over six months ago. But sometimes, the worst dreams are the ones where no one dies... where they just sit and listen. Johnlock, by request.


_In the dream, I'm sitting under the awning of an outdoor café, waiting. I don't know what for, but I'm just sipping my coffee and waiting. It's hot and bright outside, but that's pretty normal for the middle of the Dashti Margo. There is a reason its name means "the desert of death". Why exactly there's a café out here in the middle of the Great Afghan Fuck-All is completely beyond me, but it's one of the first dreams I've had of being in Afghanistan that hasn't involved me being shot at or people being blown to bits. Yet._

_I take a sip of my drink, which has turned into tea for some reason, and look around me. It's a quiet little place, literally in the middle of nowhere without another building around as far as the eye can see. Just desert. Sand sand sand, everywhere. I remember what that feels like, and I can practically feel those little grains grinding themselves into my skin again, trying to lodge in there and never come out, forcing me to take them away from this godforsaken place. It makes my neck itch._

_Then I hear a sound I'm all too familiar with, but it sounds out of place. I look up over the rim of my tea cup and sure enough, there it is. That black, nondescript yet undeniably posh black car jetting over the sand toward me. I can't tell what model this one is; in dreams, you never can tell those sort of things. But I know right away whose it is, and who is expecting me to jump in and be driven off to god knows where. With a sigh, I drain the cup, set it on the table, and stand, feeling oddly comfortable in my knit sweater and slacks and wondering if that means I'll be frigid when I get into the air-conditioned interior of the car, which glides up at that moment and sends little sprays of sand up around it's tires. I stand next to the door for a moment, conflicted. More conflicted than usual. It feels like if I get into the car, it will change everything. It will be admitting something… but I don't know what._

_Eventually, some inner resolution drives me to open the door and slide onto the seat. I'm careful to kick my shoes against the lip of the door frame and get rid of as much of that clinging sand as possible before I close myself in. I was right. The cooled air inside is like the Arctic to my heat-acclimated body, and I shiver. The driver, who, oddly, is wearing a ski mask, begins to drive. I realize that I didn't pay for my tea. I decide that since I originally ordered coffee, I shouldn't have had to pay for the tea and so I don't feel guilty about it. We drive for what feels like an eternity. I doze in the back seat, arms crossed tightly over my chest to keep my body heat from escaping too much. Eventually, I drift off._

_When I wake up again, we've stopped and the driver is turned round in his seat expectantly, watching me and waiting for me to get out. I do so and find myself in an airplane hangar. The desert stretches away outside, but in here it's cool and dark. I've acclimated to cool and dark now, so I'm not as uncomfortable. And there he is, sitting at a little restaurant booth placed right where a plane should be parked, cool as you please and not a bother in the world. I stare at the booth a moment. It's the kind you see in mum and pop diners, only the vinyl is a very tacky red and yellow carnival combination that already sets my teeth on edge. Nevertheless... I approach._

"_You took your time," Mycroft says, looking down his nose at me disapprovingly in that way he so often does. I sit opposite him and just look at him. I've discovered that not saying anything to Mycroft Holmes is a better choice than trying to defend yourself against him, even when it's not your fault. Eventually, his ego, so similar to his brother's, gets the better of him and rather than letting the silence stretch on, he'll get to the point just to hear the sound of his own voice._

"_I suppose you're wondering why I've brought you here, John," he says, picking up a teapot I've only just realized was there and pouring it into a little blue china cup. He moves to pour into another cup, but I put my hand over the top of it and he pauses. His disapproving expression deepens a little, as though I'm being childish in my refusal of tea, but he puts the pot down and leans back in his side of the booth, appraising me. I sit and stare back, my expression blank and as thoroughly uninterested as I can make it._

_Finally, he breaks the silence. "Well, if you aren't going to talk, then I will, and I expect that you'll listen closely."_

"_Do you?" I say, blinking at him. His mouth perks up at the corners, like I'm being amusing._

"_Yes, I do. Because you don't seem to like listening to me much when you're awake, and it's been frightfully difficult having to track you down through your many dreamscapes to find you. You've no idea how troublesome it's been, even with my various resources."_

"_So I'm really in a lab right now, hooked up to all sorts of machines like some kind of guinea pig just so you can talk to me?" I ask with an audible note of disbelief. Truthfully, I'm not sure whether Mycroft could arrange something like that, but I'm hoping that if I pass it off like I don't believe it, then I won't have to find out. But he laughs._

"_Hardly, John. I'm merely your subconscious taking a form that is most likely to simultaneously annoy you and get your undivided attention."_

"_I can think of a lot of forms my subconscious could take that I'd much rather talk to."_

"_I'm sure you can, but I did say part of the point was to annoy you." He sips at his tea in a smug fashion. "You only ever really seem to listen when you're annoyed."_

_It's already working. I'm having to stop myself from rolling my eyes. "You wanted to talk?"_

_Mycroft sets the cup down and shifts himself like he's settling in for a long, long talk. Which, I can already tell, he is. Just like the real Mycroft. "You have a problem, John. One that you're refusing to come to terms with and which is the reason you've been having problems these last few months."_

_My jaw clenches. This isn't a topic I want to discuss with anybody, not even my subconscious. It's taken me ages to even be able to say his name aloud without getting a lump in my throat. "If this is about Sherlock–"_

"_Of course this is about Sherlock," Mycroft interrupts in an exasperated tone, "but not in the way you're thinking."_

_I don't pay him any attention. "I've dealt with it, alright? I've dealt with it, because that's what I do. Alright? He's gone. I can't change that. It's a load of bollocks and there's nothing I can do about it, but he's _dead_. And I don't want to waste months of learning how to cope with it all so I can sit and have tea with an imitation of his brother and cry about it, okay?"_

_Mycroft looks at me like I'm an idiot, which is pretty normal. "Not that, you ninny. You've dealt with my brother's death admirably, considering what happened at St. Bart's and all that has happened since."_

_I look at the table and grit my teeth, fighting the urge to punch him. He's had it coming for a while, and since I can't punch the real Mycroft… but I don't. "Yeah, yeah, let's hear all about me and my string of girlfriends who haven't stuck around because I can't 'open up to them'. Let's go on and on about me getting fired and having to live off unemployment for three months before another job opened up that pays even less. Let's talk about my limp coming back and how that's ruddy significant and shit. Let's–"_

_Mycroft cuts me off again, his voice raised to be heard over my steadily rising tone. "We can talk about that if you really want to, but it would be a total waste of time. It won't help your real problem, John."_

_I glare at him. "Oh yeah? And do tell, what is my real problem, Mycroft, since you seem to suddenly be such a bloody expert in the matter."_

_He gives me another look with "you are an idiot" as glaring subtext, and then says, "You're problem, John, is that you will not come to terms with your feelings for my brother."_

_That stops me right in the middle of what I think might have been a clever retort. "My… what?"_

_Mycroft smirks knowingly. "You heard me correctly. You have undeniable feelings for my brother and that's been the hardest part of this whole mess." I open my mouth, without actually thinking of anything to say, but he holds up a hand patronizingly. "Don't try to argue with me, John. I'm in that neat, military mind of yours, and I've been through every inch of it. You keep your feelings for Sherlock filed way at the back, right next to your memories of Afghanistan."_

_I start sweating, even though the temperature can't be much more than 12° C. "Stay the hell out of my head, Mycroft."_

_He loses the smirk and sighs heavily. "John… I _am_ your head. More or less. I know all about it. The way you get those odd little stutters whenever he's done something to impress you–"_

"'_Did.' You mean whenever he _did_ something to impress me."_

_I don't realize the implications of what I just said until I see the corners of his mouth pucker up in that satisfied smile, and inwardly I groan. "You see?" he says, taking another sip of his tea and raising his eyebrows at me knowingly._

"_I didn't mean— You said— _You_ were talking in present tense. Sherlock is dead." Suddenly, the lump I'd fought off for months is back in my throat, and I have to swallow hard to get around it. "Sherlock's dead. He can't impress me anymore. You used the wrong tense, that's all I was saying."_

"_Mmm." He doesn't look convinced in the slightest. "And how about the way that his knowing smirk both irritates you, and makes your heart pound?"_

"_You're making me sound like a naïve schoolgirl."_

"_Well, aren't you? At least where Sherlock is concerned, I think you are. You've never been with a man before, nor had the idea ever crossed your mind before you met him. This is new territory for you."_

_My fists are clenched tight. He's getting to me, and I realize this is the truth I'd been debating about before I got in his car. The truth I wasn't sure I was ready to admit… but I came here to find out. And now I know: I'm still not ready._

"_You're talking out of your arse, Mycroft," I say, pleased to hear that none of my inner turmoil is coming through in my voice. I sound very calm, even though I'm still fighting the urge to punch him and figure out new ways to fend off his arguments._

_But, of course, he's ahead of me. "Hardly, John. You're the one who simply refuses to admit it. I'm inside your mind, I know what you're thinking and feeling. I don't have to use trickery or mindgames to figure you out. I simply need to… observe."_

_That strikes a note, and in my mind I hear _his_ voice: "You see, but you do not observe!" I close my eyes as the voice reverberates in my ears. My heart begins pounding, rhythmic and in sync with the words. It's infuriating. Why won't he just leave my head like he was supposed to?_

_The world starts tilting. I do mean that it quite literally starts tilting, turning on its side, and suddenly I'm feeling very tired… worn out… stretched too thin._

"_You don't know what you're talking about…" I mumble heavily, blinking rapidly and trying to focus on Mycroft. It's hard. I'm feeling dizzy._

"_Come now, John," he says. His tone is almost annoyed now, as though I'm a five-year-old refusing to eat my greens. "You're in a safe place, you're inside your own head. Where else do you expect to say it? Denial will only get you more of the same pain. You know, _those_ dreams."_

_Yes… those dreams. Where I'm the one falling off the roof of St. Bart's, limbs flailing as the sidewalk gets closer and closer and I can hear Sherlock yelling my name and no one but him is paying attention to the man dropping out of the sky until…_

_I sit up straighter in my seat, which is difficult as the hangar has started to tilt the other way now. "Those dreams… they've got nothing to do…"_

_WHAM! Mycroft's hand hits the table with a force that makes me jump, and the world stops turning, righting itself instantly and jarringly. "John Hamish Watson, I am not going to sit here and be subjected to your stubbornness all day. You're almost as bad as Sherlock. You're so perfectly matched, you know, the pair of you. Both so arrogant in your own ways, so stubborn, so needy. I always have to corral you into things and make you behave. I'm tired of being your keeper!"_

_Keeper? He's not my keeper. I try to glare at him, but my eyelids are still heavy. What is this, anyway? Why am I so tired? Am I reaching the end of the dream? Thank god for that, cause I won't be able to bear much more of Mycroft's snide remarks and his gradually rising tone. He has no reason to be angry. I'm the one who should be angry. Angry at Sherlock for abandoning me, and trying to convince me that he wasn't who he said he was. I'm not thick. I'm not stupid. And just cause he was the smartest, most brilliant person I'd ever met, doesn't mean he got to try to pull that with me. I should have been the person he went to for help. I should have been up there with him. I should have been making that little Irish prick pay for what he'd done._

"_I should have saved him."_

_I don't register that I'd said that out loud, not immediately. Once I do, I can't stop the words. "I should have told him not to. I should have insisted more. Made him listen. Stood under him and caught him. Tried…. something else…"_

_Mycroft is silent. I feel tears swimming around my lower lids and squeeze my eyes more tightly shut. "I should have told him something. Anything to get him to stop. It… it might've made a difference. Or maybe it wouldn't, I don't know. But I still… I should've said… should've said…"_

"_Said, 'I love you.'"_

_There's something wrong. That's not the voice I should be hearing. Mycroft's voice isn't that low. I look up, embarrassed and ashamed at the tears that are trying to leak out, but not wanting to seem more weak for wiping them away._

_Mycroft is gone. Vanished. Someone else is in his spot. My breath sucks in slowly and I blink, praying my eyes are wrong._

"_Why would your eyes be wrong, John?" Sherlock asks calmly. "Has your vision become more impaired since this afternoon?" He's got that look. That one look. The 'we both know what's going on here' look. And again, we don't._

"_Sher…" I falter, then try again. "Sher…" I can't get it out._

"_John." He says it so matter-of-factly, it's almost insulting. Once again, he's found a way in which he's superior to me, and this time, it's just in saying a name. Seeing him sitting there, bold as brass in that damn-tight purple shirt and those dark pants with that irritating smirk and that bloody twinkling eye, the old urge to punch him in the face rises to the surface again._

_I swallow. "Sherlock." There. Said it. "What are you…?"_

"_You're talking in your sleep," he says, tilting his head a fraction to the left. "Are you still asleep?"_

_I have to think about that. It's a pretty odd question to be asking in the middle of a dream. "I thought you were intelligent," I say, somehow managing to dredge up some of the wry humor I use to let him know I'm not amused. "Of course I am."_

"_Really?" He frowns. "You're being fairly lucid. Am I in your dream right now?"_

"_Don't be thick, Sherlock, of course you are." I'm feeling exasperated again. Some little tiny part of my mind knows that this is just a dream, and that this is the only world in which Sherlock and I will be able to have these conversations again. But I don't care right now. I missed it too much. I need it too much to let go._

"_I'm not being thick, I'm asking a very reasonable question," he rejoins, his brows twitching downward in an annoyed way. "I'm not dreaming, but you apparently are, and yet we're conversing. Perhaps my proximity to you and my voice are making me manifest inside your mind. Fascinating… I should try this technique more often."_

"_What the hell are you on about?" I shake my head, perplexed. He has that way of going on about things. It bothers me, of course, because I can't quite follow him. But he always seems pleased to be getting caught up in his own little train of thought, and I prefer seeing him pleased. Actually, I like seeing him pleased, even if he's not always pleased for the right reasons._

_Sherlock now gives me the old standard "do catch up, John" look. "You're asleep in bed right now. I am lying right next to you, and you woke me up with your sleep talking. So I started talking to you, thinking you were awake, but you aren't. I can only conclude that you're still asleep and our conversation is exhibiting itself in your dream. Where are we, anyway?"_

_Wait… hold on… my brain tries to catch up. "You're… in bed next to me?"_

"_Yes, I've just said that, but where are we in your dream?" His expression is getting frustrated._

"_Um… a hangar in the middle of the Dashti Margo."_

_Sherlock smiles. "Ahh, Afghanistan. Are you fighting someone?"_

"_No… I was having coffee at a café. Actually it turned into tea. But then Mycroft sent a car and and brought me here."_

"_Is there a plane?"_

"_No, of course not, can't you see that?"_

"_John. I am not asleep, nor am I a figment of your dream world. I can't see anything except you and the bed."_

"_Don't be stupid."_

"_I'm _not_ being stupid, John. You're the one who's being daft. And useless. If we're in an airplane hangar, why don't you call for a plane?"_

"_Because I was talking to Mycroft?"_

"_Oh, I see. What about?"_

"_Nothing."_

"_That was a bit quick."_

"_Stuff it. What do you want anyway? Are you here to try to convince me of my feelings, too?"_

"_Your feelings? I thought we'd established those pretty well already. You seemed fairly certain of your feelings when I came back, at any rate."_

_My head starts throbbing. "Sherlock, you didn't come back, alright? You're… you're _dead_. D-E-A-D, gone, buggered off to the afterlife and left me–"_

"_Alone?" Now his eyes are different. The face remains the same, with that appraising, mildly miffed expression, but his eyes… they're concerned. Concerned? Sherlock almost never showed concern before. I was always the concerned one._

"_Yes… alone." I cross my arms. "You had to go and throw yourself off a bloody building like some sort of martyr, and on top of it all, you had the brazen bollocks to try convincing me that you were a fraud. Who's the idiot now, Sherlock? Who?" My voice escalated and now I'm near shouting. Months and months of dealing, coping, overcoming, and coming to grips with his actions are spewing out of my mouth and I can't stop. "Did you ever think for once about how that would make me feel? You had to have! You're so ruddy brilliant, a fucking genius, Sherlock, and you couldn't 'deduce' where that would leave me? You couldn't 'deduce' how Mrs. Hudson would feel, or Molly, or even Greg? And you probably don't care much about Mycroft, but he was pretty torn up about losing his only damn brother. But you just didn't care, you were off to play the hero saving the world from the bad guy and not a damn was given about those you left behind. Well, here you go, Sherlock Holmes! Here's how I fucking feel about it! You _left_! You took the easy road out and left me! After everything we'd been through, after all the cases and the fights and the running, you finally ran off without me and left me by myself with no consolation and no hope. I waited, too! I waited for three months hoping, _praying_ on bended knee to whatever god or force would listen that you'd pulled off some sort of brilliant miracle and weren't dead, and would come waltzing in one day like your usual arrogant, self-satisfied self and say 'How's the head in the fridge doing?' like I bloody well care! But you didn't, Sherlock…. YOU DIDN'T!"_

_I've lost control of myself. I'm on my feet and in a rage, staring down at him through a haze of tears and fury and pain. All that deliberate suppression of guilt, anger, loss, grief… lost in one moment to tell Sherlock Holmes how I feel. To make him listen and try to understand, even if he is just a figment of my misery-riddled imagination. I've exhausted myself shouting into his face all the things I've been backing up for ages, the things that I dropped out of therapy again to deal with on my own, because no amount of talking would help unless it was to his face. I take a breath, almost intending to go on, but all that happens is a swelling in my throat. It blocks off my vocal chords and prevents anything more than a strangled, choked grunt from escaping. The dizziness returns and I shut my eyes, feeling salt water leaking out against my will. Not in all the months since Sherlock fell had I shed more than a few tears, and now they're everywhere, humiliating me in my expended state. Emotions I can no longer name wash over me and bring me to my knees. I can't bring myself to look at him. I can't stand to see his face anymore. I think I'd break in two if I had to see it again._

"_You didn't… let me say…" I whisper hoarsely, still fighting for breath._

"_John…"_

_I feel arms around me, tugging me in closer, and I feel myself fracturing like glass at the touch._

"_John. Wake up now. Please."_

_Please. A word I've said so many times to him, but only heard in cases of dire urgency from him. It's spoken now with a strange tone I struggle to place. I've only heard his voice sound like that once. And it's right in my ear._

"Wake up, John. Please…"

I open my eyes. I'm staring into skin. Smooth, pale, slightly chilly skin peeking out of the neck of a flannel shirt. The skin is wet, as is the fabric of the shirt. I realize my face is also wet, and I feel a flush crawl over me as I realize the wetness is from my tears. There's something resting on my head: a face, a cheek, a chin. A little awkwardly, as though it's not used to it. And there are arms around me, pressing me into that skin. I feel the backs of my hands pressed against the soft material in front of me. And slowly, as I hear breathing and a steady heartbeat, I realize where I am. What has happened. Who I'm with.

"Sherlock…" I breath, and my voice is shaking. I hate it. I hate the sound. My voice should be stronger, not frightened and scared and stressed.

"Just breathe, John," he says, that mellow, logical voice vibrating the top of my head and my hands against his chest. At once, my lungs comply, breathing at a rate that they strive to make match his. My heart, racing in my rib cage, tries to slow to match the beats I hear.

I try to say something, make an excuse for my behavior, the state I'm in, the clothes I'm wearing, absolutely anything in the world so that we don't have to talk about how utterly feeble and pathetic I feel. But he stops me.

"Don't try right now, John. Just try to go back to sleep. You'll be no use at the clinic in the morning, and I don't want to deal with you clambering over me to find your trousers when you wake up late."

Cool, reasonable, logical Sherlock. It's not exactly what people would call comforting, but it works. I sigh, blink a few times, and nod my head. He shifts a bit, long limbs adjusting to make me more comfortable so that I can fall asleep easier. I begin to feel drowsy again, but there's still something that prevents me from sinking under. A tiny little pain in my chest, in my heart, something that wants to be said before I lose the opportunity. It's been there since the day he waltzed back into the flat two months ago, six months after he fell, and asked me how the head in the fridge was doing. And I can never go anywhere, or leave him somewhere, or even just go to sleep, without saying it.

"Love you."

I hear a little tiny snort, not of derision but of affection and amusement, and his breath ruffles my hair a bit. "I know. Now sleep."

* * *

He drifts off after that. I lay there a moment, listening, making sure his heart rate is normal, his breathing is regular, his eyes are moving the appropriate amount for proper REM sleep. When I'm sure he's far under, when I'm sure he can't hear me, I mumble, "Love you, too."


End file.
